Blood
by Gerald Tarrant and Quicksilver
Summary: Duo mourns for his fallen friend, with her blood upon his hands, as he ponders the qualities of blood. Set in the Sainan no Kekka universe, afect Act VIII.


_Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting._

  
**SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING **

SAINAN NO KEKKA  
Blood: Duo 

_"Here's the smell of the blood still:  
all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."  
--William Shakespeare, Macbeth Act V, Scene I_

  
Blood is so distinct. 

It has a flavor that is immediately recognizable… a coppery, metallic taste, with a touch of salt. The color is one that immediately alarms people- red, red, red. I've never seen anything that was more passionately red. Perhaps that's why red seems to be an automatic warning. It's slippery, too… when enough blood is spilt, it makes almost any surface slick. Once, in a battle during the early months of the war, I managed to slip in a pool. It was a singularly unpleasant experience, one that I'll always remember, since it managed to turn even my jaded stomach. 

Blood has one other quality of importance: it never comes off. 

Physically, blood stains. I used to wear black because I claimed to be Shinigami himself, but there was another more practical reason. The blood would blend in better than with any other color. And since I didn't always have time to wash my clothing before each battle (I distinctly recall one incident where I was forced to wear the same outfit for over a week), I needed that. 

Blood doesn't look the same dry as it does when first spilt, which has always struck me as a pity. When fresh, it has such a vital color, one that has inspired poems and stories, as we try to describe it using inadequate language. I remember knowing a kid at Maxwell's Church who would cut his fingers just to see that color, watching in fascination as it spilled out. One day he moved onto his wrists, most likely desiring to see more, and accidentally slit the arteries there. He didn't want to die- I've seen intentional suicide, and that wasn't it. It was curiosity. 

The brownish red of dried blood, though, isn't nearly as captivating. It's ugly… a memory of something that should be beautiful. It's the nectar of life itself, but once spilt, it never looks the same again. It loses that certain…._ je ne sais quois_ that causes it to be the focus of so much prose and poetry. Even religion focuses on blood- how many martyrs have wept tears of crimson, or have shared the same wounds upon the wrists as Christ? 

In my blood, I carry the genes of my ancestors. The human genetic code, the ultimate tie to each other, resides without our veins, pulsing fervently. No one's blood is quite the same for that reason; if it is split, we lose part of ourselves. 

I was told once that our blood contains the sum of our memories- it is a curse, it is a blessing. The blood of our ancestors tells a story… it is the very substance of life itself. Legends of vampires and other mythological creatures that pray on it, treating it as sweet nectar, abound. 

I've split a lot of blood in my seventeen years. But the hardest is when you're unable to prevent it… and when that blood is the blood of your friend. Every time I shut my eyes, I see her lying there, and I cry to myself silently. She didn't deserve to die- she was merely misguided. 

Trowa disagrees. Trowa said that she was a threat, and had to be removed. Doesn't he understand? Two more steps, and she would still be alive. Perhaps she would hate me for my part in the war, but it was a decision that she alone could make. I would hope the friendship we once shared would reconcile us, someday. 

Now she lies with the dead, being prepared for burial. I don't dare to go to her funeral, for her family would only be hurt by my presence. They may not have gotten along well, but they loved each other. Now they are childless, all to save a boy who used to be a terrorist, hardly a fair trade. Ilene was shining, passionate and bright, entrancing in her beauty and her love for life. People used to compare us to each other, but they never understood the fundamental difference between us. 

The day I met Ilene, it was like meeting the person I should have been had life been kind. I could have been her brother- even our coloring was an eerie reversal of each other. She gained a crush on me almost immediately, and while I was kind to her, she didn't awaken my heart. Hilde still owned that- only someone who'd been through war could truly understand me. I delighted in Ilene's company, though. She had an energy and a zest for everything she undertook. She wasn't afraid to try anything, and she'd gleefully explore whatever was around the next corner. 

Most people would say that that is also a good description of me, but they are wrong. I don't embrace life- rather, I am driven to experience everything possible in a desperate grab to luxuriate in every possible sensation. She enjoyed life; I stole it. She saw a future; I saw none. 

I will always wear Ilene's blood upon my hands… perhaps even upon my soul. In a way, she succeeded in getting her revenge on me- she could only kill me once; by having her death upon my hands, she will torture me for the rest of my life. What better revenge could she ask for? 

  
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